


Breathe

by WhyMrSpook



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Violence, Tarsus IV, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 06:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13183869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyMrSpook/pseuds/WhyMrSpook
Summary: Air. There is no air.But there is Spock and Bones, and eventually peace.





	Breathe

_Breathe._

 

Jim woke slowly, disoriented for a moment. It felt as if he was stationary, and the world was the thing coming into view, settling itself around him. His bedroom was a tip, and his feet were _cold;_ his window was hanging open and the old house had never retained any heat anyway. He sat up, feet dangling over the side of his bed but not quite touching the floor. Not yet. He used to not mind being short. When his mom got back from the stars, she always cradled him to her and told him that he’d always be her little baby. If he could stay small for her, she might just hold him forever- stop him from growing up.

Growing up was terrible. He’d realised that a long time ago. Sam had grown up, taller and smarter and stronger. Sam had grown up and he’d left. Left Jim to the empty cans and bitter rages and the cold, _cold_ house. Jim finally slid off his mattress, shivering down to the core of him. It was winter now, without a doubt; another month had come and gone without a word from his mom, and the old wooden floorboards beneath his feet were so cold they hurt. He’d be on Tarsus IV soon, and it would be warmer there. The sky would be brighter, the blankets would be thicker, the food would be better. He’d be free of Frank, if nothing else.

He padded towards the open window, hanging out over the rooftop and letting the cool winds bring tears to his eyes. It was okay. It was all okay. The cold was good- the _pain_ was good. It reminded him he was alive, and that’s what his mom had always said. Bad was good, because bad meant there was good to come. He doubted her sincerity, because his dad dying had been bad and he’d been waiting all his life for the good to follow up. At one point, he would have said that his mom’s brief stints at home had been the good. Maybe he was as selfish as Frank said, but it wasn’t _good enough_ , not anymore. Not for him. Half of him wanted to just follow Sam’s example- right then- bound out of the window and flee into the night. Only he didn’t have that much longer to wait before he was gone, so he’d withstand the bad a little longer. Tarsus would be the good.

Jim leaned out of the window, into the cold, and he inhaled deeply. There - those brisk, unrelenting winds - they brought hope.

 

 

 

Jim sat bolt upright, his head spinning as he tried to take in his quarters and how very far it was from the dusty old farmhouse of his youth. His quarters were warm- warmer than average, in fact, thanks to his Vulcan boyfriend. They’d eventually found a happy compromise- Jim had to sleep mostly nude, which he mostly did anyway, but he could generally enjoy the whole night through without overheating. Well, nightmares aside he could. Reality dawned on him quickly, nausea and dizziness dissipating with the well-practiced circular rubs to his back. He’d woken Spock, it seemed. Of course he did. He always woke Spock- Spock was the lightest sleeper on the Enterprise, lighter even than Jim.

“Ashayam.” A hand rested against his shoulder, asking him to lean back into the touch and let Spock take his weight. Jim resisted. A part of him was still searching for that brilliant, cold wind in the middle of the night. It was about the only part of the dream he could remember. Dream, or memory? He couldn’t remember. There were so many nights between Sam leaving and his departure for Tarsus that he’d spent at that window, daring himself to leave. To run. Hell, on the bad nights, even to just jump and end it all.

“No wind. There’s no air.” He mused, slumping as all the tension in his muscles drained out. “Sorry. What’s the time?”

“It is half past three, Jim.” Spock sounded concerned and tired, and Jim felt terrible for waking him. “You should attempt to return to sleep.” He didn’t bother pointing out that Spock hadn’t included himself in that little suggestion, because it only made him feel worse.

“Yeah.” It had been past midnight before he’d fallen asleep anyway, too wrapped up in Spock and the distractions he presented away from what the rest of the day would bring. “Yeah, I’ll try.” Though he didn’t fancy the chances he’d actually drift off again. If he closed his eyes, he was back in the farmhouse, and maybe Frank was just downstairs drinking and shouting at the TV. Maybe, maybe Jim would hear those awful floorboards – that splintered him any chance they got, so he’d not gone barefoot in that house for a long time – they’d creak, and Frank would be coming upstairs to drag him out of bed, just to have someone to shout at. To be called lazy for sleeping.

Jim lay back down, staring up at the ceiling, until Spock settled beside him, reaching for his hand in the space between them.

“Spock?” Jim rolled onto his side, his gaze tracing his boyfriend’s silhouette in the dark. He couldn’t really make out too much without any light whatsoever, but he could see Spock’s eyes were open still. “Was there ever a time in your life that you felt…” He tried to search for the right word, but the closest had to be, “free?”

“There is a great deal of philosophy and semantics around your statement, Jim-”

“No, I know. I just mean… exhilarated and independent. Like the next choice you make is entirely your own, and you’re yourself and nothing more.” Like the feeling of October winds in your face, and your feet on a crumbling old window ledge, and in that very second being able to just _jump_. Only, Jim couldn’t tell him that. Not Spock.

Spock was silent for a long moment. “I do not know, Jim.”

Jim turned back to lay flat, averting his gaze back to the ceiling and ignoring the pit of disappointment in his chest. “Okay. Never mind.” He wasn’t sure what he’d wanted Spock to say, anyway. The Enterprise with Jim was probably the furthest thing from free in his whole life. “G’night, Spock.”

“Good night, Jim.”

 

 

 

Jim didn’t fall back to sleep. After a while of trying, he’d let his hand slip from Spock’s, turned onto his side with his back to his boyfriend. He should have just admitted he couldn’t sleep and spent the morning productively, with Spock. But he couldn’t face morning yet, and he didn’t want Spock to worry about him, so he turned over and just pretended. His mind wouldn’t shut down, however hard he tried, but the time was long and slow and it felt like more than three hours before the artificial sunrise commenced and he turned back over, agonised at not having moved for so long. Who was he kidding, Spock probably knew he’d not slept.

“Jim, regarding today. If it would be preferable to you, I can assume your responsibilities. Doctor McCoy has expressed his desire for you to complete your quarterly physical. This may exhaust you enough to sleep the remainder of the day away.”

Jim didn’t doubt that ‘may’ actually translated to a precise percentage that Spock had calculated to Jim’s all too human need for regular sleep, but he’d taken to vague language for some reason recently. Spock meant well, always did. If only it was that simple. If he did go to Bones, there was no guaranteeing that he would sleep peacefully. No, it was safer in the Captain’s chair; quiet and surrounded by people who wouldn’t let him screw up. Not that Bones was a bad influence, but he had a habit of letting Jim get away with things that Uhura would probably slap him for. Hell, Bones was a unique combination of a total hard ass and just the _weakest_ when it came to Jim.

“Thanks, Spock, but no.” He sounded as far from himself as possible to, robotic and gravelly and his throat sort of ached from the night before, but he didn’t regret it for a second. “I’ll be fine. Just… just don’t let me be alone. Okay? I need you with me today.”

“Of course, Jim.”

Jim didn’t think it was all that simple either- Spock would probably have to rearrange lab work and a meeting and, hell all sorts, but he would and he wouldn’t complain. No, that was Jim’s job. To complain and _take_ and never give anything back. He wasn’t entirely sure, great sex aside, why Spock was with him. But then a hand curled around his neck, pulling his head closer to his boyfriend, and Spock pressed a kiss against his head the way Jim did for him if he was ever in sickbay. Jim appreciated it, leaned into the touch, let his hand reach into Spock’s top- not permitting himself to feel an ounce of guilt for it. He wasn’t sick, but the sentiment was more comforting than he’d anticipated it could be.

“I love you, Spock.” He whispered, curling his fingers deeper into the fabric and revelling in the way Spock’s arms enveloped him, wrapping around him easily and holding them close together. Hugs from Spock were… indescribable. Rare unless they were, well, horizontal in bed, and always appreciated. Bones said the only reason he tolerated Jim and Spock’s relationship was that it meant Jim didn’t find his way to his bed anymore, now that he had a Vulcan to cuddle instead. But Jim had barely done that since their Academy days, and he wasn’t exactly touch starved anyway. Despite his childhood, there’d always been _someone_. He’d never gone too long without companionship, in some sense.

“Taluhk nash-veh k'dular, Jim.” Spock’s fingers drifted past his collar, touching at the skin of his neck so subtly Jim might have forgotten he was a touch telepath. Not that he minded. Spock didn’t have to ask at this point, or it’d make for a pretty difficult relationship. “I am concerned for you, Jim. Your mental turbulence has not been such for 5.34 months.”

“I know. Well, no I didn’t, but I knew it had been a while.” He was actually quite impressed with himself. Although, perhaps that was giving himself too much credit.

“I understand my attempts to dissuade you from active duty will go unheeded, so I must ask that you trust me, Jim. If you begin to feel overwhelmed, at any point, alert me and I will offer my assistance.”

“Yes.” He agreed, before he’d really considered what it meant. “But only if you trust me too. You don’t need to make up excuses to talk to me or check up on me. Just… be there, and I’ll say if I need you.” There was that selfishness again. He didn’t want to know the trouble he was putting Spock to.

“Your health is paramount to my satisfaction, Jim. To delegate some of my duties to remain at your side is not trouble, and nor is your existence.” Another kiss against his hair. “You may use the bathroom first. I will prepare your coffee.”

Spock had learned not to both forcing food on him, not on days like this. Jim wasn’t sure if he’d worked it out from more than one failed attempt, or if Bones had just outright told him not to, but he appreciated it nonetheless.  That, and the obvious attempt at consolation. Spock was, really, too sweet to him.

 

 

 

His knees protested when he dropped to them, already too battered and bruised and tight with old cuts and scars. But that didn’t matter- pain was irrelevant – because there was _water_ , right in front of him. He scooped some into his canteen first, before he could allow himself to get distracted, because there were sick kids who needed this more than even he did, and if something went wrong and they couldn’t get back, their deaths would be on him. Only when he was sure all his possessions were strapped securely to him, did he fling himself forward into the flow. God, it was icy cold and he’d probably regret this soon, sopping wet on his trek back to their hiding spot.

But the pounding of his heart, and the rapidly numbing effect on his aching body once the initial shock was over, that was unbeatable. He grinned, despite it all. Despite everything. It had been a relatively good day in terms of food, and now water too. He sank down to his chin, the force of the water daring him to just let go of the rocks around him, let the flow take him away, submerge him, let the water consume him. That’s all it would take- to just uncurl his fingers from around one of the rocks he’d collapsed onto. To let the water wash all the air from his lungs. He wondered if that’s what it would feel like to die in space. To choke and scream, for every cell in his body to cry out for air but to not get any. It sounded horrific, objectively. It had to be quicker than starving though, right? And less painful than watching another kid just give up in the night and fall into their final sleep.

Jim wondered if he’d ever properly sleep again. Even if they made it off Tarsus, could he ever close his eyes and not expect pain to greet him? He ducked his head under the water, his hair whipping around his head. But those kids… the four that remained, waiting for him, obeying his commands, curling against him at night when they were too scared to sleep too. He couldn’t let them down. However much he wanted to just let go and submerge himself, he _couldn’t_. He broke surface again, gasping in air that tasted stale. But air nonetheless.

 

 

 

“Spock!” He gasped suddenly, sitting up straight. Not in the water, not holding on to rocks and avoiding touching the moss that made him _itch_ for days, but in his chair. The Captain’s chair, no less. He knew that, of course. He was on the Enterprise, and Spock was in front of him, his eyes searching Jim’s rapidly.

“Air- there’s no air.”

There was, and he inhaled it sharply… not Tarsus air, no, but the recycled air was still not fresh enough, not _earth._ Not cold, unforgiving winds beating at his lungs. The rushing water past his ears was gone as though it had never been there at all. The bridge was unaffected by his waking nightmare, working and talking quietly under the thrum of engines and the ship being so very _alive_. Only Chekov and Sulu were glancing over their shoulders at him, though trying hard not to be obvious about it. Jim stopped looking, focusing on his Science Officer and the concern in his dark eyes.

“Sorry. Sorry, I’m fine. What time is it?”

“It is 11.55, Captain.” Spock replied dutifully, but he looked the furthest thing from reassured. Jim felt the same, and he swore he could still taste the waters of Tarsus in the back of his throat.

“That’s late enough for lunch, right?” He stood up, shaky for only a moment before he forced himself to get a grip. He’d walked for miles on Tarsus- ran and limped and made himself keep on going through all sorts of injuries and weathers and terrains. He could make it to their quarters. “C’mon Spock. Sulu? You can take the conn for a while right?”

“Yes sir.” Sulu turned briefly, offering him a lazy salute.

Jim tried to smile in return, but he couldn’t quite manage it. There was nothing to worry about, anyway, they were only on course for Starbase nine, and Jim trusted Sulu with the ship more than anyone but Spock and Scotty. At least he could fly the damn thing out of danger, should any occur. Not that any would. He was just a worrier. No, he wasn’t. He was fine, just fine. He hurried into the turbolift, Spock at his heel, and let himself take a deep breath as the doors slid closed.

“Captain, this is the second time today you have complain of an absence of air. I strongly believe you should amend our course for medbay and explain your symptoms to Doctor McCoy.”

“No, I’m fine. Honestly, Spock. I just… I just let my thoughts wander a bit, and that’s not something Bones can fix.” Nor could he just walk into Bones’ office and declare his mouth tasted like the icy waters of a planet he’d not seen since he was a kid, and the taste was sickening. He wanted to wash it away, drink so much bourbon that it was all he could taste for weeks. “Please, can we just… I just need a break.”

He knew the moment that Spock’s resolve broke, and he gave in to Jim’s plea. “Very well.” He acquiesced quietly. “If this occurs again, I will escort you to medbay myself.”

Jim didn’t doubt it. He nodded mutely, stepping out onto the corridor and making his way back to their quarters. It wouldn’t happen again. He wouldn’t let it. He was going to keep his mind so busy it wouldn’t have chance to wander, and then he couldn’t have another weird flashback and he wouldn’t think about the air in his lungs.

Their quarters were just as they’d been earlier that morning. Spock had tidied while he’d been getting ready for the day, so there was nothing to stop them sitting right down at the table and getting some lunch for them both. Only, Jim still wasn’t hungry. Not for food. He wanted to wash that awful taste away- and he knew exactly how.

Spock’s back hit the wall before he had time to utilise that infamous Vulcan strength, and Jim’s mouth was on his neck before he’d uttered his first complaint.

“Jim- it is lunchtime-”

“Exactly! A whole twelve hours since we last fucked.” His hand found its way south, his lips returning to Spock’s pulse point and nibbling, licking, that delectable Vulcan scent. “Twelve hours too long, don’t you think?”

“Jim. I believe you are emotionally compromised and thus to allow you to-“ Spock’s words by no means matched his body's reaction, and despite his Vulcan strength his hands did little more than just rest on Jim’s shoulders, as if telling him he could push back at any moment. “To continue this would be-“

“Much appreciated, thanks sweetheart.” To get that taste out of his mouth; to replace any memory of Tarsus with the sight and sounds of Spock. The way his fingers gripped Jim’s skin, the way he tasted better than anyone Jim had ever fucked before, how he fought back groans and failed desperately under Jim’s ministrations. Maybe it was selfish of Jim, but he knew Spock _would_ do this for him, and he refused to let himself think too hard about it or he’d lose all motivation and stop.

“Great. Don’t think. Just lie back and think of Starfleet.”

 

 

 

The thing about dying was, it sucked. Not just for being alone, separated from the love of his life by glass he couldn’t break if he tried- if he wanted. It was the way breathing got harder, and his cells were on _fire_ and his head went light and his vision blurred, and his lungs begged him to do something and save himself. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t suck in that necessary oxygen. His laboured breaths didn’t seem to be doing anything to alleviate the burning in his veins, and his hand against the glass was so weak it took everything he had to just hold it in place. He couldn’t let it fall – he deserved that much, at least. If his hand slipped down, if he wasn’t strong enough to hold it in place, he truly would be alone as he died. He was scared, too scared to face that. He needed to know Spock was just there, behind the glass, and in another life their hands would be entwined as Jim slipped into his last sleep.

 

 

 

Jim woke, and before he could even breathe in, he threw up. There was nothing he could do to fight the urge- no time to lean over the bed or stagger to the bathroom. He simply sat up and lost the contents of his stomach in a violent, seemingly unending wave of nausea. At some point, Spock appeared at his side, resting a hand against his back and rubbing in small circles until Jim managed to stop, tears streaming down his face as he tried to catch his breath. His stomach and throat were both agonising, and his mouth tasted vile, even despite the water Spock helped him sip slowly.

“A-again. Happened again.” He fumbled around the words, burying his head into his hands as Spock collected the disgusting blankets from his lap and deposited them into the washing. He returned with a replicated tub that Jim honestly didn’t think he’d need now, but accepted anyway. Then a damp towel nudged between his hands, pushing them aside, trailing softly across his mouth and neck.

“Jim, allow me to call for Doctor McCoy.”

Jim nodded morosely, hiding his face again. He couldn’t stop thinking about the things he’d seen. No air. The rushing wind at his childhood bedroom window. The stale, unsatisfying air of Tarsus. The burning failure of his lungs in Engineering. He was going insane, without a doubt this time.

_“McCoy here. This better be good.”_

“Please report to the Captain’s quarters, Doctor, with a med-kit.”

_“Spock? What’s happened?”_

“I do not believe the Captain is in immediate danger, Doctor. He has taken ill.”

“ _I’ll be the judge of that, Spock. On my way.”_ Bones replied bitterly, and Jim hated himself for causing a fuss. For waking up his friend. Jim was just a little shit who couldn’t cope with his own nightmares. Pretty extraordinary nightmares though they were, it was still positively shameful. He was a grown man. It was cruel that, even now, when they weren’t crammed together in the same room at the Academy, he was still dragged a reluctant Bones from his sleep.

“Jim, you must breathe.” Spock’s hand lay at his back, still, warm and guiding despite being stationary. Jim followed the sensation, the warmth against what otherwise felt unnaturally cold to him. There was an odd, hollow sensation within him. Like all those nightmares – Iowa and Tarsus and death – had drained the very life out of him. It was only Spock’s quiet companionship, his solemn instructions, his skin pressed against Jim’s- no doubt skirting his thoughts or pushing forward calm, or both. Whatever he was attempting, he didn't have enough time for it to work before Bones was there, sweeping into the room as if he owned it.

There was a moment, a brief second, when their eyes met. Bones kneeled before Jim, scanning and barking out responses to Spock’s articulate summary of Jim’s issues thus far, and he looked up and caught Jim’s blank gaze. Bones looked scared for him, and that terrified Jim more than anything else. He squeezed Spock’s wrist a little tighter.

“You need to come into medbay for a scan, Jim. Something is trying to trigger your survival instincts, and I don’t know how or why. This isn’t a panic attack, it’s just an attack. C’mon, Kid, keep breathing –”

Jim _couldn’t._ His lungs were starving and his cells were burning, but every motion he made to breathe was helpless. His throat had constricted, and Bones was jabbing him with hypos that _should_ have been opening his airways and allowing him to breathe.

“- needs to breathe -.” Bones said, and Jim stopped panicking and started feeling the hazy welcoming sensation of passing out approaching him. “- emergency, I know Spock! Pass me -!” Bones sounded worried, angry, desperate and Jim had a distant urge to take his hand. He wanted Bones to know that he didn’t mind. That he’d welcome the peace, this time. It was completely different. Before, he’d been alone and scared, unable to _touch._ This time, he was joined by his boyfriend and his best friend, and they held him tightly, and nothing else could touch him through that warmth. He couldn’t feel the ice grip of the end, as he slipped into darkness.

 

 

 

Medbay was better than hospital, Jim secretly thought- even if he’d never dared share that with Bones, lest his ego start to rival Jim’s own. Maybe it was just tribute to how traumatic he’d found his time at hospitals over the years, but there was something about Bones’ sickbay that was less panic-inducing and more calming. It could be put down to just his best friend’s presence, and the familiar gentility of Nurse Chapel and, occasionally, Doctor M’Benga speaking quietly down the ward. There were other factors too, that most people probably wouldn’t pay much attention to. For one, hospitals were often harsh and bright. But sickbay was dim when it could afford to be, restful and mostly quiet. It didn’t smell harsh and clinical either – more like the rest of the ship did, which was a comfort in itself. Jim was most appeased by the company he kept in sickbay. Unlike his previous stints in hospitals, lonely and miserable, he was never alone in sickbay. If not Bones sat beside his bed, gruffly insulting him until he drifted off to sleep like they were back at the academy, it was Spock- of course. Spock, who could occasionally be convinced to at least sit on the bed beside Jim and stroke his hair until he slept. When duty called Spock away, Jim was joined by someone else. His yeoman, occasionally, to play checkers. Other crew members and friends – Nyota, Hikaru, Scotty.

Jim woke slowly, he thought, and then blinked himself into consciousness. He could _breathe,_ he first noticed. There were no wires or oxygen masks or anything horrific like that. It occurred to his, secondly, that he hadn’t dreamed either. There had been no awful nightmare snapping him awake, constricting his throat with panic and bile.

“Welcome back sunshine.” Bones said gruffly, and Jim blinked up at him in confusion. Bones ignored his gaze, focusing instead on the tricorder he was running over him. It was Spock who stepped up to the bed, taking Jim’s hand.

“Ashayam, you look much improved.”

“I feel it.” Jim agreed and, to his surprise, speaking didn’t hurt. He felt rejuvenated inside and out, and put it down to the expertise of his Doctor. “What the hell happened?”

The Doctor and Spock shared an uneasy look, the sort of look that made Jim’s muscles clench in preparation to stand and fight. Bones and Spock didn’t get along and they didn’t work together well – not unless Jim was in real danger. He _had_ been, technically, as far as he could recall – but they should have gone back to normal by now. He was fine, clearly.

 “What’s the last thing you remember, Jimmy?” Bones asked, finally meeting Jim’s gaze as he continued to scan him.

“I was – I’d had that nightmare, and Spock called for you, and I couldn’t breathe- I blacked out.”

“Before that, Jim. Recall the events of the last few days, if you can.”

Jim frowned, chewed his lip but nodded steadily. “Okay.” Purely because he was confused, and because he’d never seen Bones and Spock look quite so united in a hopeless sort of worry. “Before that, I’d had another flashback on the bridge. We left the bridge and I- we-” He smirked. “Well, you know. I needed a distraction.” And the faint blush tinging Spock’s high cheekbones now were a delightful reminder of how he’d looked from Jim’s position on the floor. “And I’d had a dream the night before, too, about my childhood bedroom. Why?”

“Before then, Kid?”

Jim stared in confusion, unsure what exactly Bones wanted from him. Spock squeezed his hand, lightly, as if urging him to really think. So Jim did just that, furrowing his brow as he tried to move through the fog of memory to recall fact.

“We’d been planet side on Mylasa, for the geologists.” Finally, an emotion other than concern graced his companion’s faces. Their recognition was no, unfortunately, positive. “Spock was heading the mission- I went down to take a look. We went for a stroll, then went back to the ship.” The haziness around his memories was, frankly, disturbing. He glared defensively. “Are you going to bother explaining what’s going on, yet, or do I have to carry on playing recall?”

“Mylasa was not, as previously believed, uninhabited.” Spock explained quietly. “The lifeforms we encountered on the planet were of superior intelligence to our own, and saw us as an underdeveloped species thriving only from our desire to survive. You were considered a prime example of survival instinct. Your dreams over the last few days have merely been the telepathic influence of the new species, testing your memories of survival.”

“You should have heard these suckers, Kid. They sent a message through to the ship after they’d let you go, said they just wanted to know at what point you’d be happy to stop breathing.” Bones looked livid, and Jim wasn’t quite sure if it was because of the aliens or _him._ He’d been okay, he remember idly, with dying beside Spock and Bones. It wasn’t his choice, of course. He’d take living with them any day. But if he had to die again, which had seemed the most likely conclusion to whatever he’d gone through the previous night, he wanted to be with the people he loved.

“No, that doesn’t make any sense. They showed me times in my life when I _wanted_ to breathe.” He argued. “My bedroom window- I used to stand at it, even when it was freezing and I could feel the cold in my lungs. And on Tarsus- I came _up_ for air, I didn’t drown myself.” He sounded insane, and his protests were met with the horrified looks of his friends, but he continued. “In the decontamination chamber I wanted to breathe- my cells were burning and I wanted to get to the other side of the glass. And last night- I wanted to breathe- right up until I had both of you with me, when I could stop being scared. Then I didn’t need to anymore.” He gasped in a breath, grateful for the expansion of his own lungs. “It wasn’t survival instinct they were looking for, it was pack instinct.”

“The needs of the many.” Spock murmured, rubbing his thumb gently across the back of Jim’s hand. The movement was repetitive, reassuring, but mostly encouraging. Yes, Spock understood. He and Spock were always on the same wavelength.

“They wanted to see my desire for self-preservation compared to my desire to protect the rest of you.” Jim elaborated. “I didn’t run away from home because I thought Tarsus was going to be better- that was self-preservation, because Sam had already left me. I didn’t drown because I knew I had to get back to the other kids- so that’s both of them. I died in the chamber to save the crew, and that was purely protective.”

“Well I hope they found whatever they were looking for dammit.”

“It’s… it’s over now, right?” Jim asked, and it wasn’t fear in his tone. Trepidation, maybe described it better. But Bones and Spock were there.

“It is over, Ashayam.” Spock confirmed, with the slightest of smiles. Behind him, Bones tampered with his screens. Jim returned the smile and exhaled.


End file.
